


displacement

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Freakytits Mention, Kissing, One Shot, Season/Series 07, Touching, mention of fridget, mention of vera/jake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:33:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25871419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: Vera and Bridget spend a girl's night in, a flick on the tele and the unspoken spark which transpires between them.
Relationships: Vera Bennett/Bridget Westfall
Comments: 16
Kudos: 19





	displacement

**Author's Note:**

> So, this fic has been sitting in my drafts for a year and a half. I figured it was high time I put it out. This piece exists somewhere along the limbo of Season 7. Vera’s still pregnant. For clarification, Bridget and Franky are no longer together in this fic’s universe. In 5x10, Franky admits to Kim that she broke up with Bridget. I used that line to fuel this canon divergent piece. 
> 
> I hope everyone’s safe and healthy. x

Bridget comes over with a bottle of Pinot Noir swinging in hand. Her hair, tousled and wild, contrasts Vera’s prison-mandated bun which she now sets free. Pulled into a warm hug full of loose limbs and hushed chortling, she finds solace in Bridget’s company. Cherishes their time together. Ushered inside, Bridget makes herself at home – sets dinner on the counter, to be reheated later, and snaps her fingers to the pop bouncing out of the radio.

Away from the hellish prison, Vera relaxes by loosening her taut bun into a wavy ponytail. Without the uniform, she appears smaller, coltish, more fragile. Vera, in her growth, has sought (fought) to make this home her own. Although she redecorated, the ghost of tyrannical Rita Bennett remains.

It’s pure bliss to be away from cold, metal bars and the secrets that threaten to knock Governor Bennett down.

In a reassuring manner, her palm coasts along the bump to her tummy.

A girl’s night in begins. Solidarity found, women like them stick together, refusing to be lost to the night and all other fleeting whimsies.

Full of throaty laughter, Bridget dances from each room that Vera shuffles into. Vera soothes the ache to her hips by running a thumb over her baggy bottoms. With Jake out of the picture, she feels at ease regardless of the nagging, paranoid suspicious that gnaws at the back of her mind. They gossip, they talk, and it’s all so wonderfully mundane.

Loose, flowing maternity garments contrast Bridget’s constrictive, form-fitting ones. Even in the confines of home, Miss Westfall manages to look presentable in sleek, defining fashion.

Countless times, Miss Bennett has vouched for Bridget to the board. Upon hearing her claims, they relented every time. Having patched up the rocky start, it’s all water under the bridge now. The forensic psychologist has always placed her faith in Wentworth’s acting governor.

She throws her dishrag onto the counter, away from the cluster of succulents sleeping on the windowsill.

Lost in thought, Vera fixes up an appetizer for the two of them despite Bridget’s imploration to help. Vera insists that her company is sufficient as she chops decadent slices of cheese.

Hours later, a half-eaten charcuterie plate sits on the glass coffee table. A variety of delights grace the platter. Prosciutto, walnuts, sun dried tomato, brie, goat cheese, dried fruit (apricot, Bridget's favorite), sharp cheddar, and other fancies beg to be consumed.

They move onto an informal dinner in the den with the tele on. Vera balances a tray on her lap until Bridget volunteers to sweep their plates away. Gidge washes the dishes, distracted by the peaceful, mundane task. She dries her hands and shifts her ocean blue eyes to the romcom that starts to play.

After her infamous lasagna, Bridget kicks off her heeled boots, discards them sloppily on the aquamarine, patterned rug. She pulls her feet under her bum. No longer does the blonde sport a boot obscuring one foot, the bone’s since mended.

Craving comfort and calm companionship, they cozy on up to each other on the sofa. In due course, the sadomasochistic agony lessens for the two of them.

Their shoulders touch as they lean against one another for support, not speaking, refusing to interrupt the silence.

Vera nurses her evening cuppa until she banishes it to the coffee table. Her mug had been a practical gift from Governor Ferguson, navy blue with the golden imprint of a crown. Absent-mindedly, her thumb strokes the handle before she lets go. Neglected and cast aside, the tea’s long since cooled anyway.

Akin to a protective shield, she tucks a wool blanket over her lap, resting under her stomach.

“Often, I wish I could rewind the clocks,” Vera interrupts the lackluster dialogue on the tele.

It’s a nervous habit, one which Bridget diffuses, full of grace.

“You’re not the only one.” Bridget chuckles with a wry, albeit pained smile. Her laughter lines run a bit deeper.

A single finger caresses the crystal stem of her glass.

Mediocre wine serves as a meager distraction for Bridget. She steals a sip in between the faint lulls in conversation. On screen, the flick becomes a blur of moving color, shapeless images that once vaguely resembled people.

“What about Doyle?” Vera asks, seemingly perplexed.

It’s like a proverbial smack, light yet enough to knock her off-guard.

In waves, Bridget feels her heart ache. Franky’s “fuck that” attitude really cost her. Delicately, her thumb coasts along the rim of her crystal chalice. Gidge avoids her bed full of sorrow and broken promises. Instead, Bridget flashes a sad smile which says everything and nothing. She sets down her glass before running a hand through her short, kempt hair. Shakes out a mess of tangled solid gold. She kisses the taste of wine rolling across the bed or her tongue, saccharine and divine.

“It was mutual,” Bridget echoes the words Doyle uttered to Chang minus confessions of love all whilst feeling awfully numb. They _did_ break up. In this tale, they never made up.

Despite the fallout, Bridget and Franky amicably parted ways. There’s still a little loss, a little emptiness, that manifests as a persistent physical ache.

Vera offers a sympathetic smile, hesitant to react.

“I still miss her,” Gidge speaks up, a strained smile in place.

All this reminiscing fills Vera with unspoken desire. Her hand falls into Bridget’s, fingers intertwined without any sign of letting go. She musters a secure squeeze. She almost envies Bridget’s grief, but connects to her loneliness.

In response, Bridget burrows her face into Vera’s stiff shoulder which slackens.

“I don’t want him in my life,” Vera murmurs in an attempt to be sympathetic. Her voice still breaks and the sniffling promises to follow.

It’s Jake, she means, a man invested in his own ambitions who excelled at leverage, at collusion, at manipulating a fairytale vision. The thought, alone, is enough to sicken her.

Tired of being used, being played, Vera’s shoulders slump down. Tears spring abruptly. She faults it on her wiring, her upbringing, the hormones driven by pregnancy. Souls like Vera and Bridget go on to blame themselves no matter the bruises and smudged fingerprints left to stain their souls.

“I know.” She hushes her with gentle strokes that caress the curve of her steeled spine. “You’ve been hurt, Vera.”

Out of nerves, Vera’s tongue strikes the back of her teeth. She has chewed her nails ragged. Her heart beats faster, in tune with a moth’s fluttering wings. Her anxious, little smile simmers. Upon receiving Bridget’s kind, reassuring touch, a shallow sigh deflates her. Vera could overthink the end of times.

Watery eyes and vapid concerns expose the constant cycle of making mistakes. They’ve been lied to just as they’ve done the lying.

“I am terribly afraid of repeating the mistakes of my mother.”

Gingerly, Bridget cups her cheek. That simple, kind touch suffices.

Vera finds herself leaning into the gesture, the intimacy that needn’t form words.

“You never will, Vera. You have so much heart and love to give,” Bridget says and means it, the sincerity as warm as a spring day.

A part of her experiences relief from detouring the conversation from Franky. Her palm connects with her collarbone. Bridget’s eyes wander towards Vera’s bump. She reaches out, hand mid-air with a silent invitation before asking for consent.

“May I?”

Starved for affection, Vera falters and fumbles before acting. Vera guides her slender hand by the wrist. Gradually, albeit timidly, she places her hand on top of Bridget’s. With a gasp, Bridget feels a timid kick. A light protrusion to signify the momentous occasion that is life.

“It’s a girl.”

Gently, their fingers link. They stay like that – without words, without thoughts – and choose to savor what they have at face value.

After a deep, ragged exhale, Vera cracks her eyes open. Hadn’t they shed enough tears after all this time?

“You’re welcome to stay the night,” Vera chimes and offers a cheeky grin.

Unable to steer clear from melodrama, an apology goes nowhere yet everywhere. Bridget flicks out her hand, as if she is to dismiss the offer, but she knows that rejection isn’t easy for Vera. Her “sorry” is hollow, empty, void. It’s a crying shame she’s had one glass too many.

“I shouldn’t-“

“I want you to.”

Confession is an exalted sigh before a longing stare filled with concern. _Something_ grows and aches and pleads between them.

This time, Vera’s hand doesn’t fall away. It isn’t the ill-fated dinner she shared with Joan – no one sold lies quite like Joan. The wistful part of her, the soft compassionate bit, thinks about that night often. Things could have been different, if Joan saw her as an equal, treasured her more than an ivory pawn.

And if things had worked out with Jake? Now, Vera has to laugh at that one. Bridget flashes a look - bemused yet inquisitive, her lips pursed against the rim of the wine glass.

There’s no sense in recollecting past shame.

Their fingers, once delicately interlaced, now fall lax.

Bridget leans closer, grateful for the warmth flowing from her compatriot. Her pink, soft, pursed lips are as inviting as the muse in a Botticelli painting.

Up confrontationally close, Vera notices the beauty mark by her pert nose. She makes up her mind, firm and resolute.

“I want you to stay here with me.”

Bridget can manage that.

“Okay.” A deep breath. A longer pause. “Okay.”

The space between them goes ignored. They each treasure this sacred moment. That kiss is bittersweet and surprisingly chaste. A modest peck on the lips leads to a lingering one. To stay here feels comforting, safe. So they remain confined to the lumpy sofa with its springs pulled too taut, camaraderie elicited from a reassuring presence. Bridget drapes her arms around Vera’s taut shoulders which relax over time. The film ends, drowned out by lackluster commercials and eventually replaced by the warble of reality television.

Bridget strokes her firm jawline, her thumb moving to trace the bow of her lips.

Breathing shallow yet even, their foreheads connect. Bridget angles her knees towards Vera, mindful as to avoiding the infliction of pressure.

The kiss rubberbands them back to reality: how they once sat on opposite ends of the sofa, their bodies pushing closer, safe and warm, but not quite the right fit.

Coffee and apologies vow to accompany the creeping dawn.

Vera lets Bridget fall into a drunken slumber, a fitful one meant to be broken in the early morning’s persistent light. She tucks her in with a warm flannel. Puffs up the pillows before checking the locks in her home. With a sigh, she settles for bed, but doesn’t sleep. Her lips still tingle, her body fuzzy all over. She should let this go, and she will, like dinner with Joan.

Always dwelling on bittersweet disaster, a pattern continues cognizant of an intangible reality.


End file.
